


Death in Judgement

by BlazePyron



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, In the Fade, M/M, Regret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazePyron/pseuds/BlazePyron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“He’s hurt.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Varric’s face couldn’t decide whether it wanted to smile or frown.  It settled on a sort of grimace.  “Yeah, you sure do pick up on the obvious, but—“</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“But his hurt helps him, each hurt a hammer slamming down on steel blades, making them stronger.  Blades for justice, for vengeance, but also for mercy.  Betrayed by black feathers, but he knows it’s because he’s hurt, and has to be hurt one last time to never hurt again.  But the weight on his wings weighs him down, grounds him, he knows he’ll never fly again.”  Cole turned to the dwarf.  “I want to meet him.”</i>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>

Hawke begins having strange dreams featuring a love he ended himself.  But how much of the dream is a dream, and what can Hawke do to either stop the dreams or to make them real and redeem himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Feathers

“Hey, Kid, if he’s bothering you I can shoo him out. Between his gravity and charm and the shit he’s been through, he must be giving you quite the headache.”

“He’s hurt.”

Varric’s face couldn’t decide whether it wanted to smile or frown. It settled on a sort of grimace. “Yeah, you sure do pick up on the obvious, but—“

“But his hurt helps him, each hurt a hammer slamming down on steel blades, making them stronger. Blades for justice, for vengeance, but also for mercy. Betrayed by black feathers, but he knows it’s because he’s hurt, and has to be hurt one last time to never hurt again. But the weight on his wings weighs him down, grounds him, he knows he’ll never fly again.” Cole turned to the dwarf. “I want to meet him.”

Varric’s face stopped trying to decide anything. The Kid always freaked him out when he did this, but Varric had to admit it was a gift. “It’s probably better if he comes up here.” The dwarf leaned over the railing and whistled.

In the tavern two floors below, the Champion of Kirkwall looked up to see his short biographer waving, motioning him to come up. Hawke sighed and stood up, leaving his half-empty tankard as he climbed the stairs. Since he had arrived at Skyhold, Varric had been showing him off to any number of people. Nothing he wasn’t already used to, of course, as Varric had always led him around The Hanged Man back in Kirkwall as if he were showing his prize nug. Still, Hawke had yet to meet Seeker Pentaghast, which was the only person he was truly looking forward to meeting, if only to witness the fireworks between her and Varric.

“Hawke, I’d like you to meet Cole. Cole, may I present to you, the Champion of Kirkwall.” Varric bowed as Hawke stepped into the rafters of the third floor.

Hawke studied the lad. There was something off about him, that much was clear. His entire presence seemed a bit hazy to Hawke, as if the kid would disappear if he stopped paying attention. “What did you say his name was?” Hawke mumbled to the dwarf.

“Why do you insist on calling him that? He hates it, makes him feel like he helped when he knows he only stopped hurting.” Cole said, staring intently at Varric.

“What?” Varric seemed genuinely surprised, “Hawke did so much for Kirkwall, I mean, Andraste’s tits he’s even their viscount now, of course he’s the Champion.”

“But he doesn’t like it.” Cole replied insistently.

Hawke studied the boy closer. He, of course, had never told Varric how he felt about being called the Champion. The champion of anything, really, least of all Kirkwall. But this kid (what was his name?) managed to almost read his mind. “I really don’t mind, Varric” Hawke began, “I know it’s all part of your story and really I-“

“They call me champion, can’t stop them. They thank me every day, thank me for killing him, sticking the knife in his back. But all I did was fall, finally stop fighting Meredith when I had no reasons left to keep flying. They call me champion but I wonder if I didn’t kill him.”

Hawke grabbed onto the railing to steady himself. He felt the blood leave his face, and suddenly he felt very heavy. He felt Varric’s hand against his back.

“Easy there, he tends to have that effect on people.”

“What are you?” Hawke rasped, his breath returning.

“I’m Cole.” The boy said, “I want to help.”

* * *

 Varric left the two standing on the battlements, Cole sitting cross-legged on the wall staring intently at Hawke, and Hawke resting on his elbows, staring out at the snow beyond Skyhold, avoiding making eye contact with the lad.

“I’m not a demon, you know. I’m only one person, I’m Cole. That’s one less than he was.”

“You’re not natural, and from my experience unnatural things usually end badly one way or another.” Hawke sighed, head in another place.

Cole’s eyes seemed to glaze over. “He says he’s not sorry, so I’m sorry for him. Knife the same as always, but still sad, still almost can’t do it. Say you’re sorry, save yourself, stop me from doing this.”

“I can’t forgive him, but I was so angry, he had to pay somehow, and I justified it so many ways in my head, but if I had just thought about it more…” Hawke’s voice was quiet, the hurt flooding his head as Cole untangled it.

“Single black feather sitting on the sidetable. Strands of stray blond hairs on his pillow -”

“How is this supposed to help me, anyway?” Hawke yelled, finally facing the boy, “You said you wanted to help me, but you’re just telling me what I already know.”

“The stab seems to be a wound of mercy, ending pain the only way I know.” Cole’s face flashed in realization. “Stab? But, you have a bow.”

“I’m versatile.” Hawke simply said.

The spirit knew this wasn’t the truth, and searched Hawke for the real answer. “My best knife in his back, no need anymore, can’t ever stab again” he began, slowly, “I only think of his back, the knife into the skin, so fitting, so just, so right, but then why do I still wish to touch his skin, breathe the scent of his flesh?”

“Enough!” Hawke screamed, turning and storming away, “I don’t need you to remind me how many mistakes I’ve made, Varric has a whole book for that!”

Cole reached he hand out as if to stop him, but let it fall as Hawke continued walking away. “The chains wrap around the feathers,” he murmured, “can’t untangle, can’t tear one without tearing the other.” He slid off of Skyhold’s wall and strode purposefully towards Solas’ tower. “If I ease away the pain, I scrub out the person. If I scrub away the mark on the wall I chip away all the paint with it, the plaster even, the entire wall, and then everything is wrong. Why is it so tangled? It’s never been this bad.” Cole shook his head, sliding off of the wall. “I’ve made it worse, Champion of Kirkwall, I’m sorry.”

* * *

 “Love, wake up.”

Hawke opened his eyes, and saw the familiar ceiling of his estate, the warm fire already burning, the lute, thank the maker, resting unused beside the stone fireplace. Hawke yawned.

“Do you want breakfast? I’m sure Bodahn would bring us some eggs. A lovely breakfast in bed before I head to the clinic, doesn’t that sound delightful?”

Hawke turned his bleary eyes to the familiar voice. It was Anders, of course. Beautiful, radiant, Anderfel blondie, who reached out his hand and touched Hawke’s face, and his healer’s touch seemed to soothe so much, without even a hint of magic. And yet…

“You adorable sleepyhead,” Anders smirked, “do you want breakfast or not?”

“Anders…” Hawke had a nagging feeling, something about the Chantry. Something about the Chantry, and Sebastian screaming, eyes wild with fury and sadness. Something about never picking up a dagger again, about mutual backstabbings, about how at least it was him, how he was happy for a while at least, but why would that happiness end, what was…

“What are you thinking about, love?” Anders asked, gently stroking the side of Hawke’s face.

Hawke felt the familiar tears come to his eyes. “You’re dead, Anders. I killed you.”

At this, Anders seemed to form tears of his own, but his smile was even brighter. “I’m so proud of you, Hawke, even if I wish you had forgotten for a little longer.” Anders leaned forward and kissed Hawke’s forhead. “I’m proud of you for doing what I know you had to as well. I have no regrets, and neither should you. I’m fine with being dead, my love.”

“But, Anders,” Hawke began, choking back a sob now that all the memories came flooding back, fresh in his mind, “what about us? Why did you want so badly to be a martyr, why were you so eager to leave me, why, blessed Andraste, why did you make me kill you?”

Anders threw his arm around Hawke, and pulled him close. “You brought me so much happiness, my love, so much more than I ever could deserve. You gave me so much more than you deserved to give, you deserved so much more than the little I left you with. I guess I do have a regret, that I was so selfish that I made you be the one to execute me, to put me down, to put me out of my Maker-forsaken misery and madness.”

“Why?” moaned Hawke into Anders’ chest. He knew somewhere in his mind that this was probably just the work of a desire demon, maybe that strange boy was a desire demon and soon Anders would kiss him and ask him to stay in this bed for eternity, and Hawke knew he would say yes, he knew that he had let himself become so weak when it came to Anders, that killing him had taken everything from him, and all that was left was a shell that knew what was good, and always did it, but never felt any of the previous joy of life, never felt anything as Hawke, only lived as the Viscount, the Champion of Kirkwall. But all Hawke really wanted was this, right here.

“You can stay as long as you want, my love,” Anders whispered, “but I know what you’re thinking. I can’t force you to stay, and I wouldn’t ever ask that of you. So many more people deserve you, I could never be that selfish, not even now.”

Hawke felt the whispers in his ear, the hot breath, the spice of Anders’ smell, and he shoved hard against the man’s bare chest, pushing him off the bed onto the ground, limbs all splayed, a look of surprise on his face.

“What’s wrong, love? You usually hate the floor, won’t we get rugburns?” Anders said, laughing yet his eyebrows still arched in surprise.

“What are you!” Hawke bellowed, “I want to know what did this to me, what stupid, foul creature is making me kill him again, what demon I’m going to have to walk into the fade and strangle myself!”

Anders’ smile disappeared, and the hurt in his eyes sent stabbing pains through Hawke’s chest. If this were a demon, it was a flawless impersonator. “I tried so hard to say all the right things, so that you’d know that you weren’t in any danger, that even if it wasn’t the Anders you killed it was at least the Anders you loved. Please, Hawke, please, can’t we pretend for a little longer? I know you need this, and you should know that I need this, more than you can know. I need to make things right with you, Hawke, I can’t leave you like this. I can’t leave you this sad. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Hawke slid out of bed and stood up, realizing but not particularly caring that neither of them had clothes. He swung his leg at Anders, kicking him in the side, a solid thump on the bare ribcage, making Anders yell in pain.

“Fine, kick me again if you have to, hit me as many times as you need.” Anders whined, “but please, Hawke, a demon would never tell you the truth, would never tell you that you’re in the fade and you’re dreaming and I’m dead and I’m so sorry that I made you kill me. I should have just killed myself.”

Hawke collapsed to the floor, not being able to take the overwhelmingly genuine-sounding lies. They lay there on the floor like that, breathing heavy, sniffling. “I’m almost surprised,” Hawke said after a breath, “That there’s not some Fade version of Bodahn running in here to see what we’re yelling and sobbing about.”

“Yes, we are the pitiful pair, aren’t we?” Anders said with a chuckle.

Hawke turned to look at his lover, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Would spirits breathe in the fade? Hawke didn’t know. He didn’t know much of anything anymore.

“You should go.” Anders said finally, “I’ll find you again, I promise. You need your sleep, though, love. I can’t imagine this was at all restful.”

Hawke stared up at the firelit ceiling. “How did you find me in the first place?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been looking for such a long time, you know, but suddenly I felt something stir up like a tornado, a frenzy of Hawke-like emotions. I had missed those feelings, you know.”

“It was probably talking to that kid. He tried to play therapist but it only made me hurt worse. But I guess I should be thankful for that, if you’re here. If you aren’t a demon or some other horrible fade-creature.” Hawke felt his heart flutter, warming up, as if coming back to life.

“I’m letting you go, aren’t I?”

Hawke opened his eyes, not sure when they closed. “Yeah, there’s that.” He whispered, to a stone ceiling with patches of moss crawling across its crevices. This was not his room. He looked to his side and saw cold stone where Anders and a fireplace had been. He was back at Skyhold. He was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece is part of a class assignment, so crit is very much appreciated. Additonally, this is the first fic I've done in years upon years, so any crits/suggestions on things like tagging or summary conventions would also be a great boon. I hope you enjoy this, and I'm looking forward to posting more!


	2. Waffles and Justice

“So, I’m really confused Hawke, why do you want to talk about this again?”

“Just tell me, Varric, do you think I did the right thing?” Hawke looked as if he was searching for answers at the bottom of the mug.

Varric sighed. He knew giving Hawke a pint was a bad idea. He knew giving Hawke his fifth was an even worse one. This was the most he had seen Hawke drink since he had become Viscount; any other time he offered Hawke a drink it ended up sitting half-finished on the tavern table by the end of the night. Maybe the ale was better in Skyhold. “Look, Hawke, I try to leave all the complex moral decisions to you for a reason. I don’t like deciding things. Weighing all those options, trying to figure out what the ‘right’ one is, it’s all very exhausting.”

“Tell me about it,” Hawke grumbled.

“But, see, that’s what’s weird, Waffles, you don’t ask me about any of the other questionable things you’ve done. I thought we had an agreement: you tell me who needs to get shot, and Bianca takes care of them.”

Hawke lifted his head and smiled at the dwarf. “You must be pretty drunk, you only ever call me Waffles when you’re drunk.”

“You wanna know why I decided on Waffles?”

Hawke leaned back in his chair. “Please, I’d love to know where Waffles came from.”

“It’s because whenever you have to decide anything, you waffle. You have to take a dammed poll before you commit, and then afterward you do another survey of all your friends on if you did the right thing. Except me. Not that I’m put out, mind you, I was really enjoying my unbiased perspective.” Varric took several gulps of his ale and slammed the tankard back onto the table.

“Varric, who do you think I talked to whenever I had doubts? Who do you think is the one person I shared all my doubts with? Surely you have a guess.” Hawke seemed to glower across the table at his friend.

Varric sighed. “I know, I know, Blondie was always there for you and all that. But,” Varric leaned forward, leaning on the table, “he blew up the dammed Chantry, Hawke. Nobody blames you for what you did.”

Hawke closed his eyes, breathing hard through his nose. “I read the ending of _Tale of the Champion_ you know.”

Varric paled. He really should have seen this conversation coming. “Why would you read the ending? I’d understand reading the duel between you and the Arishok, or even the beginning where Flemeth rescued you, I know how you like dragons.”

“You said ‘eventually we all left the champion’s side for one reason or another.” Hawke’s voice grew more firm, his eyes more intense.

“Is that not true? Hell, the only reason you saw Aveline as much as you did is because she was always in the same building.”

“Except for Anders.”

Varric’s mouth opened to say something, but for once words didn’t come to him. His jaw just stood half open.

“In the _Tale of the Champion_ I apparently didn’t kill Anders, I spared him and forced him to atone for what he did by facing down his fellow mages. So tell me, Varric, is that what you think I should have done? Or did I just fail to live up to your idea of a hero, for once?”

“Hawke, you misunderstand, it wasn’t about what was right and wrong, it was just –“

“Then what was it about, Varric? Every other lie in that book is at least an entertaining exaggeration, but having me and Anders just waltz off into the sunset?”

Varric let out a sigh, as if he were about to explain something to a small child. “Stories offer a bit of freedom, Hawke, as I’m sure I’ve said before. And the thing is, Blondie would have rather you killed him than help the templars, we both know that.” Varric took a quick swallow of his ale. “And I don’t even think you would have made him, it would have been more cruel to force him to turn on the mages rather than –“

“He’s _dead_ , Varric, but that’s not what you’re telling people. Half of Kirkwall thinks I just have him stuffed in a closet in my office and I have wild sex on my desk with the instigator of the entire Mage-Templar war whenever anyone isn’t looking.” Hawke was yelling now, and a few of the patrons of _Herald’s Rest_ were sneaking glances his way.

Varric leaned forward and places his hand on Hawke’s arm. “I don’t even want to think about if what you did was right, it just gives me a headache when I try. But if you want to know what I really think, I think you did exactly what Blondie wanted you to. He wanted to die, and he wanted to die by your hand on his own terms. He wanted freedom, and he trusted you to give that to him.

Hawke stared intently at the table, not saying anything for a moment. A droplet or two of water fell onto the table, lightly staining the wood.

“When will you move on, Hawke? You know he wouldn’t want you like this.”

Hawke took Varric’s hand in his own and looked up, meeting the dwarf’s gaze. “My choice.” He simply whispered.

* * *

As Hawke lay in the bed, he wondered if he’d have the dream again. The mix of dread and anticipation was keeping him awake, ironically. He ran his fingers along the plush fur of the cozy bedspread, marveling at how such luxury could exist in the middle of the mountainside. How much had it cost the inquisition to supply all these guest rooms with all the amenities of an Orlesian hotel. The fur alone should have cost a fortune, although perhaps the Inquisitor himself supplied it single-handedly from the bears and wolves he killed in the countryside. Apparently he was a Dalish hunter, so it would make sense that he knew how to effectively skin such animals.

The large bed felt so empty. Hawke grabbed a spare pillow and hugged it close to himself, turning on his side. He felt a familiar pit in his stomach, a tightening knot as he thought about who he wished this pillow was.

The scene replayed in his head. The terrible red glow of the explosion. And in the aftermath, the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter looked at him, expecting him to pick a side. The pain moved into his chest as he remembered all the turns of his logic. He had to protect the mages, if only for the memory of Bethany. But Bethany was dead, and furthermore his choice was not whether to condemn all mages, only the ones in Kirkwall. And so he thought of all the mages he had ever known in Kirkwall. Merril, whose blood magic destroyed her entire clan. Anders, who had betrayed Hawke himself and murdered an entire Chantry full of people. Not to mention the countless blood mages Hawke had killed. And then, when Orsino was cornered and he revealed how he knew of Quentin and encouraged his research, Hawke knew he had made the right choice. The First Enchanter had hidden the existence of a blood mage serial murderer from the templars, had been, however indirectly, responsible for the death of Hawke’s mother. He had deserved to have the might of the templars descend upon him. And the blood of innocent mages that had been spilled had ultimately been his fault, not the templars. This is, at least, what Hawke told himself.

A hand ran itself through Hawke’s hair.

Hawke opened his eyes and saw the soft gold of Anders’ staring back at him. “You’re lucky I was expecting you, Anders, otherwise I would have screamed in your face.”

Anders kissed Hawke’s forehead. “I almost thought you weren’t going to fall asleep. Has something been troubling you, love?”

Hawke felt heat rise to his face from Anders’ affection. “Almost having you back like this, it hurts. It makes me think about everything that happened, makes me doubt myself. And you’re not here to reassure me.”

Anders draped his arm across Hawke, running his hand down the bare skin of his lover’s back. “Would you take my reassurements now, though?” Anders said with a slight laugh, “You’re talking to the instigator of the entire Mage-Templar War, you know.”

“You’re proud of that?” Hawke said with a frown.

“And why not?” Anders said, sitting up in the bed, the cover falling to reveal his surprisingly muscled bare chest, “Look what it’s led to. The Inquisition has taken the Ferelden mage rebels as free allies. That’s such an improvement already, and it’s only the first step! Think of what could happen if the new Divine is on the side of the mages! Cassandra is reasonable, she would scale the templars back significantly, make sure they never went over the line again. She was the Divine’s Right Hand; it’s not unreasonable to assume she’s a possibility. Leliana was the Divine’s Left; and I know she would protect the mages, considering how much she respects Warden-Commander Surana.”

“It’s almost as if you’re happy Divine Justinia is dead.”

The excitement faded from Anders’ face. He stared down at the quilt, letting his hand fall from Hawke’s back.

“So many people died at the Conclave. So many people seeking compromise.” Hawke gave Anders a searching look. “A Chantry leader was killed in the explosion. It sounds an awful lot like, well,” Hawke swallowed before continuing, “how you died.”

“Are you asking if I did it? That’s a silly question.”

“I think I’m asking whether you would have.”

Anders was quiet, but he turned his back to Hawke, swinging his legs off of the bed.

“You don’t even have remorse for what you did, do you?” Hawke whispered.

Anders sighed. “Of course I do, Hawke. What happened in Kirkwall was so much worse than I could have imagined.”

“And what exactly did you think would happen?”

Anders rested his elbows on his knees, head bent towards the ground. “I don’t think I thought about it. I just knew things couldn’t continue as they were.”

“Why Elthina, and not Meredith herself?” Hawke seemed genuinely confused.

Anders gave a dark laugh. “You really think I could have blown up the Gallows? No, it had to be the Chantry.”

“But the Grand Cleric was a neutral party!”

Anders turned his head to look back at Hawke forlornly. “Her neutrality was an oppression in and of itself. It just didn’t seem like it to you.” Anders stood, turning to face his lover. He bent over the bed, hands bracing himself on the sheets, face close to his love. “You’re not a mage, Hawke.” Anders whispered, “As much as you try to see your sister in every mage, you can’t really understand what was at stake, or what still is.”

Hawke was tired of arguing. Anders’ face was so close to his own that Hawke couldn’t help but reach forward slightly and kiss him. Hawke could hear the mage’s sharp intake of breath as their lips met, and the pleading moan as Hawke forced his tongue into Anders’ mouth. Their mouths came apart after a moment, and Hawke opened his eyes to look at the other’s reaction. Their warm breath mixed in the air as they stared deeply at each other. Hawke couldn’t help but feel as if this was their first time all over again: a sudden, passionate kiss, and a night where nothing existed but the heat and comfort of two bodies.

Anders, seeming to read Hawke’s mind, pounced on top of him. He crashed their lips together again, reveling in the forgotten taste of Hawke’s mouth. It was warm and slightly sweet, just as he had remembered. His beard scratched against Anders’ chin; he had missed that feeling so much. He broke the kiss and nuzzled his cheek against Hawke’s beard, treasuring the sensation, panting with want.

Hawke pulled Anders tight against him, burying his head in the mage’s shoulder. He took a deep breath, drawing in the scent of Anders’ bare skin. “You know,” Hawke began, his voice muffled, “Bethany once told me that she had a dream where she saw Dad.”

“It wasn’t him though, was it?”

Hawke pulled away and looked at Anders again, cupping the mage’s face. Hawke’s eyes were shimmering with tears on the verge of falling. “She said that she knew he wasn’t real when she hugged him. He didn’t smell like she remembered. The desire demon that was tempting her couldn’t get that right.”

“Is this just a roundabout way of saying I smell nice?” Anders teased, smirking.

“You smell perfect, Anders.” Tears fell from Hawke’s face as any remaining vestiges of doubt left him. “How is this even possible? Spirits of the dead don’t stay in the Fade like this. Why did you not move on to ‘the side of the Maker’ or wherever dead people go?”

Anders frowned, breaking eye contact with Hawke. He drew a shaky breath. “The truth is Hawke,” Anders voice was quiet, and he swallowed audibly before continuing, “I think in a way I did move on.” He felt Hawke tense under him.

“What do you mean? Don’t tell me this is a lie, not now, not when I began to believe…”

With panic, Anders looked into Hawke’s eyes. “No, don’t misunderstand, I feel such love for you burning in me, I have every memory, every feeling of us together. I will always carry the pain of betraying you, of forcing that terrible decision of my fate upon you.” Now it was Anders’ turn to cry, but his voice held steady. “I told you many times: Justice and I were one. When you killed me, Justice died as well.” Anders hesitated.

“But?” Hawke whispered, his brow furrowed in dread.

“When spirits of the Fade die,” Anders began, turning over and laying next to Hawke, eyes trained on the ceiling. their essence can reform again into another spirit. They can keep memories of their previous life, but they’re basically an entirely new being. When you killed me, I died, and in a way I’m still dead. My spirit passed through the Fade, and onto wherever it was meant to go. Justice died as well, his spirit passed into the Fade, stayed there, and eventually reformed into something different.” Anders turned his head to find Hawke staring intently at him. “I’m what his death became. I guess Justice and I are one, now more than ever.” The intensity of Hawke’s gaze sent a chill down Anders’ spine.

“So he’s still there, inside you even deeper now?”

“No, Hawke, Justice is dead. He was a spirit whose purpose was to embody the virtue of justice. My purpose is only to embody the persona of Anders. I carry in me everything that Anders means. Who he was and who he still could be.”

“You’re just an imitation then?”

Anders couldn’t tell the tone of Hawke’s voice. He only knew that he had to explain quickly before he lost his love a second time. “Everything that Anders ever felt I feel right now. I am everything he was because I am him, I am Anders and Maker’s breath do I love you, Hawke.” Anders leaned forward, kissing Hawke’s forehead. “I love you so much that I sat on that wooden box and I vowed to accept any judgment you gave.” Anders’ mouth moved down to meet Hawke’s, but he hesitated, hot breath panting onto his lover’s lips as if waiting for Hawke to consent, to confirm that this “fake” was still deserving of his love. “I could feel Justice telling me to run, to help the mages, to finish what I started. But I love you so much, Hawke, I vowed to let you do what you thought you had to, even if it meant letting you kill me.” Anders closed his eyes, as if waiting for judgment a second time. He let out a surprised moan as Hawke’s lips covered his own.

Hawke awoke with a mouthful of sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that time of year where school is a crushing weight upon us all, especially since I'm graduating college. Chapter 3 will be posted soon though since it's still part of the assignment I'm doing this for. Thanks for reading!


End file.
